When We Were Seventeen
by animecattears
Summary: You're Brittany Pierce - twenty four years old, in your senior year of college. You and your boyfriend Sam Evans both got into your dream college, the New York College of Arts. You've been dating for six years. It's the happiest time of your life. However, all that is about to change. AUish. See what you think! Xx
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't know anyone featured in this fanfiction personally, it's just my ramblings! I don't own the cover image either! Or Glee! :)**

_You're twenty four years old, in your senior year of college. You and your boyfriend both got into your dream college, the New York College of Arts. He's taking music production – he wants to be a singer. You're taking dance. You've been dating for six years. It's the happiest time of your life. The sales forms for the house you want to buy are half-filled out, scattered around your tiny, cosy Manhattan apartment. You want to move in, fix up your jobs, start a family maybe. You've finally got your stuff sorted since your rough, stress-filled teenage lives. But how could you have known that all that was about to change..._

Sam's been away for two days now – the whole weekend. It was a pain, but he had to go. He was visiting his manager, in Boston, trying to sort out record deals. You miss him so damn much. You're pacing your apartment, not wanting to get into anything big because he'll be back from the airport in just an hour. You finally settle on the couch, and you pick up your phone from the shelf. You know he's on the flight, so you can't text him, but you scroll through all his messages, a tiny grin creeping across your face. Finally you open up your photos, and look through them. There are 10,628 and most of them are of you and Sam. You've been up late both nights he's been gone, stressed out, and you're tired. You swipe your finger across your phone, smiling stupidly, and you finally begin to delete the bad ones, and sort the good ones into folders. It's something you've been meaning to do for days, and organizing things has always made you less stressed, ever since you were a little girl. You used to categorize your books on your shelves by author when you were younger. It would take your mind off things.

It's tiring, though, and after a little while, your eyes close and you drift into sleep. Three hours later, you wake, and you frantically check the time. You groan. Sam was due home two hours ago. You half-heartedly pick up your phone. No missed calls. He's on speed dial, clearly, you stab his profile picture with your finger and rub your eyes as the phone rings.

'_Hello. This is the Vodafone voice mail message for 0781 619 168. The caller you are trying to access is not available right now. Please leave a message after the tone. After you have finished recording your message, please hang up or press the hash key for more options.' _You've never been a worrier, you figure she's probably just stuck in customs or something. You pull yourself up from the couch, and fix yourself a bagel in the kitchen. When you hear your familiar Coldplay ringtone, though, you drop the bagel and dash into the den, where you hope to see your boyfriend's name on your phone's screen. It's not.

'Hey?' you say, not understanding who's on the line.

'Hello, can I talk to Brittany Pierce please?' a recognizable voice asks.

'Speaking,' you reply. 'Who is this?'

'It's Aubrey Hanson, administrator at the New York College of Arts,' she says. 'Am I right in thinking that you are the next of kin to Sam Evans?' You nod, then realize she can't see you. An unpleasant feeling is in your stomach. You curl up on the couch, slightly worried now.

'Yeah, what's the matter, is something wrong?' you inquire.

'Well – yes. Stay calm, though, we're sure it's going to be okay, we're waiting for news right now-'

'Tell me what's happened to my boyfriend!' you almost shout.

'He was on the flight from Boston to JFK, wasn't he? Anyhow, he... there was a suicidal person on the flight, who managed to get into the cockpit and take over control from the pilot and... and... the plane crashed.'

You don't say anything. You can't help feeling like she's lying to you.

'Is this a joke?' you say sceptically.

'No, no I'm afraid it's not,' the patronizing voice of Ms. Hanson says. You hang up on her, and stare at the rug. Sam chose it. The rug, you mean. He chose the rug. He found it in a thrift shop and he brought you there one day, after work. You didn't want to go, you had a headache and you were tired, but you went anyway, just to please him. It was the first summer you were here, and Sam dragged you into the shop, laughing, and showed you it. Frankly, the rug was ghastly. It was patterned with forest animals and you hated it. But he insisted that you bought it for him.

You suddenly get to your feet, dash to your and Sam's bedroom, and flip open your laptop lid. You enter your password (outsiders47) and open up a new tab. In the search box, you shakily type, 'boston to new york plane crash', hoping for nothing major. Unfortunately, there are more than fifty million hits.

You feel giddy and click on the first result. It's the New York Times. You scan the article and pick out the important bits. You read the final sentence. _Everyone on the flight is feared dead_.

You don't even know what's happening to you. You're screaming and crying at the same time. You run to the bathroom and kneel down, sobbing, next to the toilet, about to throw up.

The next few hours are just a blur. You must have fallen asleep on the rug at some point, because at about 2am, you're woken by a rough bang on the door. You don't want to get up, but you've got a suspicion it might be someone with news about Sam, so you drag yourself up and open the door.

It's Quinn.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi duckies, so so happy that I got follows and favs for this fic, I don't normally get this! So, I just wanted to say, sorry this is so short, I've actually written the entire thing already as one, but it was too long for a one-shot, so I just split it up into smaller chunks, and this one happened to be a small one. On the up side, though, it means you should get the chapters on a regular basis! Luv ya! Xxx**

**Don't own glee or know any of the characters, credit goes to Netta when we stayed up till 2am last weekend telling fics about our gay OTPs.**

It's Quinn.

You look at her. She looks at you. You both just stand there, and when you close your eyes again trying not to cry, she takes your hand and brings you inside to the couch. You cover your face with your hands and lean forward into the cushion. Quinn puts her arms around you and holds you as tight as she can, your face pressed into her shoulder. She rubs your back as you cry. You think she's crying a little too.

'You're gonna be okay. It's okay,' she mutters into your ear. 'It's gonna be okay.' You stay like that for who knows how long. You fall asleep again, though, and when you wake, Quinn's gone again. You don't blame her, it's what you would have done if you were in her position. She could only help you so much, though, and you're a wreck. You have no idea what could help you now.

The next week, you literally feel nothing. You call Aubrey the day after Sam was due to arrive home, and scream down the line at her. You also get a call from an airline official, who tells you the date and time of the memorial service which will be held for all who were lost in the crash. Nobody actually told you that his death was confirmed, but you realize that if they're planning a memorial service, then that pretty much validates it. You're angry at yourself for lying to yourself, if that makes sense. You don't really make much sense any more anyway. You don't use your laptop, because the one time you did use it, you logged into your email and saw eight unread emails from Sam's distraught parents. The preview told you everything you needed to know without actually opening the emails: they were basically eternally mad with you and blamed you entirely. They never liked you, and they were never okay with Sam being with you.

Quinn comes around a few times, bringing you food, because to be honest, you and Sam didn't keep in touch with the grocery store and there was never any food in the house. She brought you bagels mostly, for some reason, so for a week, you ate bagels, slept, and watched CSI. You never went into your and Sam's room, because it reminded you of him too much. You slept on the couch.


	3. Chapter 3

Seven days and sixteen hours after you first heard about Sam, you heard a gentle knock at the door. You get up and switch off the TV. You know it's not Quinn – she works during the day, and anyway, she has her own key now. You open the door, suddenly self-conscious. (You've been wearing Sam's college hoodie and the same pair of pyjama bottoms for the whole week. You haven't washed your hair or taken a shower either.)

The face you see there isn't one you're pleased to see, to be honest. You recognize it straight away – you obviously would, given the amount of time you spent thinking about her when you were younger. You haven't seen it in a long while, though, and you're not upset about that. However, you take her arm and pull her into the house, and you sit together on the couch.

'I never resented you because of what happened when we were seventeen, you know,' Santana says. 'Not really.'

'Yes, you did,' you say without any emotion in your voice. 'I could read your body language like a book. Every day, I saw it. I felt so bad for making you so upset. You hurt so much, senior year.'

'Well, I wasn't really mad. I was more sad. But I valued Sam's happiness over mine. That's what it's like when you love someone. You care about them more than you care about yourself. And he chose you, because you made him happier than I did, so I guess I was happy for him.'

You're not sure if that was a jab at you for not loving Sam, but you let it go. She puts her head on your shoulder and moves closer to you. You remember she always was like this. You're not really sure whether she's oblivious, or whether she's just messing with you. You decide to roll with it.

'So... how are you keeping, Santana? Are you with anyone?' you ask. She thinks about this before answering.

'Well, I assume you heard about Puck,' she mutters bitterly. You nod sympathetically. You heard about Santana's cheating ex-boyfriend through Quinn, who still kept fairly strong links with the alumni of your old school. 'But after Finn, and then senior year, I didn't really want to be in a relationship – until I met Puck,' You were aware that Santana had been in a brief relationship with her best friend when you were sixteen. 'I guess being with Finn was just experimenting, and he turned out to be a real dick,' You nod knowingly. 'I didn't know who I was.'

'But you do now?' you ask.

'No.' she replies shortly. You sit in an awkward silence for the second time, and you quickly strike up another conversation topic.

'So how's Cambridge?' you query. 'What are you taking?' (a simple mind technique you learnt before you dropped Psychology – getting her to talk about something she's interested in.)

'Oh, it's amazing! I want to be a writer, or an actress, so I'm taking Classical Literature. I should be there now but my professors don't mind me taking some time out to be with you, they say I'm doing pretty well so they're not worried about me getting behind.' You think this means she's staying, and you're surprised to realize that you're happier about it than you thought you would be. 'So how about you? Are you still keeping in touch with the school crowd?' You're surprised to hear her ask you about yourself. When you knew her, she was an incredibly selfish person – although, the way she just spoke about Sam sort of suggested that she had changed since you last saw her five or six years ago.

'Yeah... not really. I mean, I talk to Quinn, who talks to everyone else, so I get all the gossip from her. Me and Sam spent the whole of our first summer after senior year with everyone, though – we went to L.A. with everyone,' you reply.

'Oh, yeah, about Quinn, isn't it awkward?' she asks curiously.

'Not really, I mean, she broke both of our hearts the same year, but we were both friends with her all through school, and she was kind of like a mutual friend, so we got to know each other through her. She didn't talk to Sam for a couple of years, so I'm really close with her, more than Sam was, I'd say. She's one of my best friends.'

You sit and talk with Santana for the rest of the day, going through all the best memories you both have of Sam, all through high school until we get to senior year. Santana books into a motel and stays there for a few days. You get along remarkably well, and she decides to stay for a while, to help you. She helps you so much.


	4. Chapter 4

She manages to get a job as a barista at Starbucks, to pay for the motel – but you obviously help her out as well. You're still working as an assistant at Vogue, helping with fashion photography. They let you take three weeks off, then you get back to work feeling better. Every evening after work, she would come back to your apartment and you would put on old James Taylor or John Mayer records. Then you would drive her back to her motel, and you would drop into her Starbucks the next morning for your usual latte.

You never went to the memorial. You and Santana both decided that he was too special to have just any old memorial service, shared with others.

Very soon, three months has passed and Santana's missed a semester at Cambridge. She says that she'll need to get back to her studies soon, if you don't mind. You don't. You're so thankful to her. You think you're back on track. You know that most people in your position would feel guilty for getting over Sam's death so soon, but you know that you will never be fully over him. There was something so special about him, and you loved him so much, and it would never be the same without him. And you also knew him extremely well, you think you knew him better than anyone else in the world, and you're certain that he would never want you sad forever.

One day, you're back early from work and you get a sudden urge to go into his room. You push open the door and stand in the doorway for a few minutes. A few things happened in this doorway. You grin, and step into the room. The first thing you do is curl up on his side of the bed. It smells just like him. Even after all this time, you can remember exactly how he smelled. Suddenly you feel something hard under the pillow. You slide your hand under it, and you feel a CD case. You sit up, and read Sam's writing on the front. It says 'Our Song'. You jump out of the bed and blow the dust off a CD player plugged into some speakers. You open the case and put the CD into the player. You press 'play'.

And what you hear is too beautiful for you to describe in words on paper. The gentle guitar begins to play the introduction, and then Sam's stunning voice fills the room. It's genuinely amazing. You realize it's a love song written by him to you, and you become conscious of the fact that you haven't heard his voice, haven't even heard his music, since he died.

Santana's happy too. She's not sore at all, and you love her for that. You have noticed that your feelings for her are growing again. All through high school, it was just Sam and Santana for you. You loved them equally. You were starting to worry who you would pick. But then senior year happened, and Santana wasn't an option. Sam was. You knew the decision was made: Sam was the guy for you. You were over Santana, and although you still felt bad for her, you knew that issue was a thing of the past.

But maybe... maybe it wasn't like that. Maybe a tiny part of you always still liked Santana. And maybe Sam knew it too. But if he did, he forgave you for it. And that was why you loved him.


	5. Chapter 5

Hey, I meant to get this up quicker than this but my show had opening night and extensive dance rehearsals so it was up later than expected but hope you like it!

Santana's booked her flight back to London, and the two of you are going out to Olive Garden for dinner to celebrate her last night in New York. You pick her up from her motel in your tiny car. You notice that she's dressed up – well, not really. She's still wearing her usual Superdry hoodie (she seems to have an unlimited supply of those hoodies), leggings and Chucks, but you're aware that she's put some effort into her hair, which looks gorgeous, and she's wearing subtle makeup. It does make all the difference, though, and she looks beautiful. You feel self-conscious with your retro Vans, dark skinny jeans, and vintage jumper.

You make light conversation during the dinner, and you can't help but notice that she looks a little awkward. You haven't seen her in a week and a half – she took the train to see relatives in West Virginia for a week and the last three days she said she needed to pack in the evenings and that the cafe had become very busy in the mornings and the queues were huge, so you shouldn't bother coming in for your latte.

After you pay the bill (you said it was a minuscule price to pay for all the help she's given you over the last three months), you get back in the car and, as you drive past Central Park, you ask if she wants to take a walk. It's only mid-April, and it's 10pm, so it's dark. It's also cold, and you've got your jacket, but Santana doesn't have hers, so you find an old one of Sam's in the trunk and lend it to her.

You walk through the park, and you notice that her hand keeps brushing against yours. You both sit on one of the huge rocks.

'I'll miss you,' you say thoughfully. She turns to look at you.

'You will?'

'What do you think?!' you laugh. Santana doesn't.

'I'll miss you too.' she says sadly, facing forward again.

'Hey... are you okay?' you ask.

'Yeah. Can I ask you something?' She's talking slowly.

'Shoot,' you reply.

'Well... what would you do if you liked someone that you worked with, and you wanted to tell them, but you know it would never work out?' It's like there's a hole in your chest where your heart should be. You really, really thought she was going to ask you out. Well, two can play at that game, you think. You know it's irrational and she's not messing with you, she's oblivious to how you feel and she doesn't mean to hurt you, but you're so angry and upset you're not really thinking straight.

'Tell me more about them. Is it someone at Starbucks?' you ask, tensely.

'No,' she says, and you feel like there's still a little bit of hope left. 'I don't really work with them in a business,' she adds.

'Um... I'd say, just go for it. Do you have his number?'

'It's... it's not a 'he',' she mutters. Your heart soars.

'It's not?'

'It's not.'

'Just tell me who she is, then maybe I can help you more,' you say. You're counting on this answer.

'No, she'll say no anyway. It's fine, don't worry about it,' You're losing hope now. You think maybe you should give up. She's going home tomorrow, anyway, and you'd both seen The Notebook, you both know that long-distance relationships never work.

'You sure?' You give it one last go.

'Yes, I'm sure! Brittany, drop it!' You sit in silence, until you suggest that it's getting late and she needs to be up fairly early tomorrow, so maybe you should head back. She doesn't say anything, but climbs down off the rock with you, and walks with her head down and her hands in her pockets. You feel sorry for her.

When you're back in the car, you don't talk to her and she doesn't talk to you. Until-

'Brittany?'

'Yeah?'

'I really like you. Not just as a friend. I really, really like you.' She just puts it out like there, bluntly, like she would. You pull over into a side road so you can talk face-to-face.

'You do?' you repeat. 'Oh... oh my god.'

'I'm so sorry! It's ok, it's ok, just pretend it never happened, oh my god, ugh-'

'Santana, it's not that. It's fine. I... I like you too.'

'Huh?' she says.

'Oh my god. Okay. Wow. Right. So when we were in school, I had the biggest motherfucking crush on you. I thought there would be a time when I'd have to pick between you and Sam. But then Sam told me she had a thing for me, and you weren't an option, so I went with Sam. Job done, I thought.

Then I hated you. Then I loved you. Then I hated you again. And it was all so god damn confusing. But when you came back this year, I realized that... no. No, no, no. I _definitely_ still liked you. And... yeah. That's where we are today.'

'Wow.' she says. 'It's crazy how similar our stories are.'

'Did you know? That I liked you?' you ask.

'In school? Yeah. But I thought that the whole senior year issue changed things, so when I came back, I didn't want to ask you out or anything. Even though I still had really strong feelings for you.' You don't talk for a while... again. Wow, these awkward silences are really common, aren't they?

You drive her home, not sure how to feel. But by the time you get into your apartment, you know exactly how you feel: you're over the fucking moon.

You turn up your speakers as loud as you can, and go to your and Sam's CD collection. You haven't had anything in that CD player apart from Coldplay, James Taylor and John Mayer for nearly four months, and you decide it's time for a change. You run your finger down the CD rack and finally, you choose Babel by Mumford and Sons. You slide it into the player, and skip to your favourite track, 'I Will Wait'. And you're dancing around your room till the night ends.


	6. Chapter 6

**Here's the last chapter, well not really chapter, I just felt like I needed to end it properly. As I said, I don't think this fic worked as well as I thought it might, so I probably won't write a sequel :(**

**If you do want one then just tell me, I'll see what I can do**

And that's how it is now. You and Santana are sort of in an unofficial long-distance relationship (it turns out The Notebook was wrong). You still miss Sam, of course, but you know you'll always miss him and that's just the way life is now. You're proud of how you've moved on, and you're happy now.

Quinn was right.

Everything was alright. I was okay.


End file.
